Silentium
by thebaloonatic
Summary: What does army doctor taste like? -JM A cold icicle of fear slides down his back. Something very real and definitely not boring. Interesting.


When they reached the mountain side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed.

And when all were in to the very last,

The door in the mountain-side shut fast.

-The Pied Piper

* * *

_If that clock ticks one more time I will throw it out the window where it will crack someone's head open and maybe give them severe brain damage but probably just kill them but at least something interesting will have happened and their blood will at least add some color to the sidewalk on such a miserable bleak day like this. _

The Clock, audacious bastard, continues to tick. The Consulting Detective, for all his heated inner monologue, stays reclined on the couch.

No case in over a week.

It feels like pinpricks in his eyes. It feels like his skin is rubbed raw. Every sound, every change in the lighting grates on his nerves until he feels like he's going to shake right out of his skin and God when does it stop and John is breathing across the room in his armchair and with every breath its all Sherlock can do not to tear his hair out and freezing winter days on days like this one are actually a blessing because maybe he can stay out long enough for his skin to grow numb and the cold to lick down his over sensitized limbs so cold it would actually feel hot and _God..._

When he was a child, in their family home in the country, during the winter the sky would be so crisp and so pale and against the snow it would be stunning not because it was bright but because it was so beautiful that it hurt to look at.

Once, when he was a child, and it was below freezing, he went outside without a hat or gloves, because he was just so _bored _and Mum and Dad and Mycroft were all tucked around the living room or in their respective bedrooms just trying to stay warm and he'd needed to do _something._ When he'd come back nearly two hours later shivering so hard he thought he was going to fall over his mother had nearly had a heart attack. He remembers not being able to take off his own shoes because his fingers were so stiff and he couldn't feel his ears for nearly an hour even though Mum had made him hot chocolate and wrapped him up in blankets by the fire after scolding him with Mycroft behind her with his arms crossed and saying everything he needed to with a look.

It had been worth it, the scolding, because the cold had been lovely.

If Sherlock did the same thing now John would also make him tea and wrap him in blankets. But John wouldn't scold him. He knew better. Unless he'd done something particularly horrible, anyway. So he just had to keep himself from getting frostbite and everything would be fine.

John turns a page of his newspaper, pages crinkling in his grip. The sound feels like sandpaper against his skin.

It could rain acid and he'd be less miserable.

John clears his throat. "Why don't you check your inbox again?" He directs at the nearly comatose figure on the couch, who is radiating a mood so foul he can taste it.

He receives a short grunt in reply, but quite frankly he's surprised Sherlock even gave him that much. Sighing, John stands, collecting an empty tea cup and a plate scattered in toast crumbs.

John is washing his dishes in the kitchen when Sherlock hears his mobile chime. Twisting around on the couch, Sherlock reaches for it sitting on the coffee table. He sees food there, and realizes John had made him breakfast. He hadn't even noticed. He touches his knuckles to the mug of tea, which is lukewarm. Unfortunate. He retrieves his mobile, expecting a text from Lestrade.

_What does army doctor taste like?_

_-JM_

A cold icicle of fear slides down his back. Something very real and definitely not boring.

Interesting.

* * *

Army doctor tastes like tea and salt, usually. Sometimes when he wakes from a nightmare he tastes like gunpowder. Once he tasted fresh as a mountain stream. But thats not what he told Jim. At first, he didn't tell Jim anything.

"Mexican or Thai?" John asks two days later, holding two take-away menus. There still hadn't been any cases from Lestrade or his website, but he'd started an experiment involving toenails that had so far been distracting him.

The decision is easy. Once, when he was a child, he'd eaten a hot pepper out of his Mum's garden as an experiment. His gut had been on fire for the rest of the day and it was definitely as bad going out as in. However, when he ate curry, he liked to imagine his intestines turning yellow in swirls and then orange like some form of modern art.

"Thai."

His mobile chimes again an hour later as he and John are eating across from each other at Sherlock's desk.

_That's the third time this week you've ordered Thai._

_Don't you get bored without some variety?_

_-JM_

Sherlock simply loves Thai. He loves the way curry explodes on his tongue, or how ginger sends sparks of pleasure to his brain. He's not sure why he loves turmeric now, when he was a child the smell made his nose crinkle, but now the bitter taste sends a sharp _'zing'_ all the way to his fingertips. Though Jim is half right, he gets bored without variety. Thai food and short army doctors are the exception.

"Is that Greg?" John asks over his rice.

"Mmm. Just tying up loose ends from last weeks drug ring." He pretends to shoot off a text and then stuffs his phone in his pocket, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He's not sure why he's not telling John he's receiving texts from a criminal mastermind. Is it that he doesn't want John to worry, or that telling someone would take away the thrill?

Later, when he takes John to bed, he wonders about Thai, which leads to wonderings about Jim. As John moans and twists his fingers in Sherlock's hair, he wonders how Jim knew about the food. As John arches his back and cries out Sherlock's name, he wonders if Jim has access to CCTV or if he's got surveillance inside the flat. The thought is at once terrifying and exciting, and he shudders to completion, teeth scraping against his lover's neck.

* * *

_I could take you from your flat, you know._

_-JM_

Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table, peering through his microscope. He stares at the text for a few seconds and then goes back to his work. Another text comes in a few minutes later.

_I know your pet's work schedule. I'm far beyond your brother's watchful eye. I could keep you, if I wanted._

_-JM_

He decides the best way to deal with the situation is to ignore it.

* * *

One thing he misses from his childhood home is moonlight. He remembers falling asleep to moonbeams shining across his room from his open window, sometimes so bright he could see the dust swirling thick through the air. In sunlight, swirling dust is melancholic, like something forgotten, but in moonlight it made him think of night queens and faerie dust.

Now, in his bedroom at baker street, he's lying awake while John sleeps next to him. He sleeps with the curtains closed now, because instead of moonlight the only thing that shines through are yellow streetlights.

_Been a bit slow, love?_

_-JM_

The text alert is jarring in the quiet of the flat. Two weeks without a case. Its hardly the longest he's ever waited, but that doesn't mean its easy. He wondered, briefly, a few days ago, if Jim was the one keeping London's criminal underbelly so well-behaved. He certainly had the power. But Jim had said himself, '_I like to watch you dance'_, so he'd hardly want to keep Sherlock from any work. Sherlock wished he understood this new game Jim was playing. The not-knowing was unsettling. Something stirred in his gut, and he put his phone aside, curling into the warmth of John Watson and trying to force his mind into silence.

Jim Moriarty still clutches at the edges of his consciousness like an ink stain.

* * *

He's just solved a murder. John is by his side, and blue lights flash behind them as they make for the main road. He's high on adrenaline, he hasn't eaten or slept in days. They have a brief argument on whether they should go out for Mexican or Thai, and John wins with Mexican, his argument being that they've 'been eating bloody curry for the past ten bloody days.' Sherlock's sure he would've won if he didn't think he was going to pass out within the hour. Even he knows to choose his battles.

He feels his mobile vibrate in his coat pocket.

_See that man coming up on the side of the road? He's got some fantastic cocaine, on the house._

_-JM_

Honestly, he thought Jim was above that. Manipulating an addict. But somehow tedium doesn't take away from temptation.

"You okay?" He hears John say, and he sees that John is watching him.

"Never better." He says, pocketing his mobile. But John must see something in his face, because he reaches for Sherlock's hand and twines their fingers together, a gesture they hardly ever make in public. Sherlock is grateful for it then, as they pass the man on the the side of the road. They eat staggering amounts of food, Sherlock very carefully avoiding anything on the menu containing hot pepper. They both giggle maniacally until the last of the adrenaline wears off, and then head back to Baker Street, dozing in the cab and then collapsing on Sherlock's bed. They are both too tired for sex, but Sherlock curls against John's back, pulling the blanket around them. All thoughts of Jim Moriarty far from his mind.

* * *

"What the _hell _is this?" John asks, livid, six months later. Sherlock is in bed, naked under the sheets, John is standing at the bedside, clad in his dressing gown, with Sherlock's mobile in his hand. Sherlock doesn't have to ask to know whats the matter by the look in John's eyes and the chalky color of his skin.

Sherlock would never have asked John to retrieve his mobile, thinking the chime was a summon from Lestrade, if he'd known. He hadn't received a text from Jim in over six months. Time and post-coital glow had made a fool of him. He'd swear abstinence before he'd willingly let that happen.

He sits up slowly, the sheets falling from his shoulders and pooling in his lap. The air is cold, and his skin erupts in gooseflesh. He inhales sharply, and is silent for a moment.

"Ah."

John drops the phone into Sherlock's lap, hands steady despite his anger. Sherlock peers at him beneath furrowed eyebrows before he reads the text.

_The sound he makes right before he comes is __adorable._

_JM_

Sherlock peers up at him again. "John," he says carefully, not at all sure how to proceed.

John's throat is working. "You better have a damn good reason for not telling me about this, Sherlock."

"I didn't think he'd make contact again. Its been six months. I thought he was bored."

"What about the other ones? Were you never going to tell me about those?"

Of course John would have seen the others, he'd have read them before Sherlock could get his phone back. Sherlock opens his mouth and then shuts it again with a soft _click. _The air between them is incredibly tense. "I didn't want to make you worry about something I had no control over."

Its a half truth.

John takes a deep breath and then starts pacing, heel of his hands pressing into his temples. Sherlock watches him, heart beating too fast, not sure what to do next. He can't think because John's pacing is making him nervous. John stops abruptly and turns on his heel to face him.

"So, what, he's got cameras here or something?"

'I don't know."

"You don't know." John says flatly, crossing his arms.

"I- Yes. Probably."

John looks up at the ceiling and laughs softly, humorlessly. "Have you tried to find them?" He asks after a minute. It sounds like he already knows the answer.

"No."

John's face does something weird at that, and Sherlock suddenly realizes that he's got to fix this, somehow take back what he's just said. "I was fairly sure that I wouldn't be able to find them, if I did try. They could be tiny, placed literally anywhere, and he's probably hacked both of our webcams…" He trails off when John puts a hand up to silence him.

He stands with a hand over his mouth and an arm still clutched around his chest. "Okay." He says through his fingers. He stands there for a long time, taking steady breaths. Sherlock can't stand it. An eternity passes before John finally lets his arms fall to his side, fisting his hands and straightening his shoulders. Soldering on. "Okay." He says again, more firmly. He moves about their room collecting a very small amount of clothes and putting them neatly into his suitcase. His military training kicking in so that he could pack quickly and efficiently.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks.

He's not ready for the answer, when it comes.

"I'm going to Harry's." Says John, head down, placing a pair of neatly folded bluejeans in his bag. "I'm not leaving, I'm just going to Harry's until we've figured this out." John gathers up jeans, a button-down, and a cardigan and steps away to enter the adjoining bathroom, leaving Sherlock frozen on the bed, coming back a few seconds later fully dressed and holding his toothbrush. Sherlock's tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth, so he just watches John finish packing. He zips up the suitcase and lifts it off the bed with an air of finality. Sherlock's heart clenches.

"John."

The single syllable grinds out of his chest. He wishes he could make his body cooperate and actually explain things properly to John but he's fairly sure he's having a heart attack. There's something pressing hard against his chest and he's nauseous. Those are symptoms of a heart attack, right? He'd ask the doctor in the room if he could breathe.

"I'll come by tomorrow, alright?" John says, looking like he's in as much emotional turmoil as Sherlock is, but fear is definitely dominant. He's good at hiding it, but Sherlock is also good at reading him. "I just can't sleep in a room full of cameras, Sherlock, can you understand that?"

Oh.

John felt violated. He wasn't going to say it out loud, but he did. It made sense. Jim had seen them fucking, sleeping, dressing, undressing, eating… just, everything.

John cleared his throat and then stood by the bed for a few more seconds before turning and walking into the living room. Sherlock could hear the rustle of fabric as John put on his coat, and then the jingling of keys as he trudged down the stairs. The sound of the door banging shut behind him echoed through Sherlock's skull, which had suddenly become quite empty.

* * *

He becomes aware, first, of the quiet, and it is a blessing.

It is not a loud quiet, the kind that rings in your ears and demands to be noticed. It just _is._

He becomes aware, second, that something is tickling his hand; something soft and light. First he thinks of John and his eyelashes, but that's not right. He tries to ignore that strange cramp in his chest, because John isn't here. Next he imagines downy feathers falling from the sky and brushing his skin, warm and soft. Eventually he opens his eyes, to be greeted by an entire world painted white.

_Snow._

But it isn't cold. He is lying facedown in several inches of it at least, and it isn't melting. Without moving much, he scoops up a handful, and it is perfectly fluffy and soft. It tickles his nose when he breathes in and out, too. His eyes flick upward, and he can see the dark shape of a tree in front of him, the only thing that isn't painted white that he can see. Getting his hands under him, he pushes himself off the ground, snow cascading off him in a great white waterfall. The sound of the snow hitting the ground is thunderous in such a quiet place. Having righted himself, he turns slowly on the spot, taking in his surroundings. Everything is so white, he can not see where the ground ends and the sky begins. He could walk right off the edge of the Earth.

His eyes fall upon the tree, which he observes is apple, and is separated at the base in a Y shape, as if two saplings had grown too close, crowding each other's space until their bark fused together. There is a wooden swing hanging from one of it's branches, wearing a cap of snow. Sherlock walks towards the tree, his footsteps muffled. He stands beneath it, by the swing, and looks up at its branches. They reach up to the sky like so many gnarled fingers, looking for the sun and finding only ice. The tree is bare and cracked and frozen, as if it has never seen the sun but keeps reaching anyway. He reaches his hand out to the trunk, pressing it against the bark, and it is freezing. Surprised, he pulls back.

The tree was beginning to make him feel a bit weird, actually. He turns and walks into nothing, slipping his hand into his pocket for warmth. Its some time before he comes across anything else, though he's not sure how much time. The snow is still falling and the flakes stick to his eyelashes, but he isn't cold; except for the hand that touched the tree.

After what feels like a long while, though it may have been only a few seconds, and it may have been an eternity, Sherlock sees a dark shape emerging in the distance. He draws up to it quite fast. One moment it is standing in the distance and the next it is right in front of him, close enough to touch. But he doesn't, his hand is still cold.

It is a house. The wood is dark, almost grey, the paint having peeled off over time. He can't see into the windows, the door is hanging on its hinges but beyond it all he can see is black. Laying in the doorway, half hidden in shadow, is a pair of red child's gloves. The color is startling against the bleak landscape, and he is too afraid to go near the door to inspect them more thoroughly. His heart starts to beat erratically in his chest, and before he can figure out what it is thats so terrifying, the house is gone, and he is alone again, lying face down in the snow. There is a hand against his cheek, stroking, and it is so warm he wants to cry, but he just lets out a long whooshing sigh. At first he thinks of John, but John's hand are calloused from handling his gun and these ones are soft. And much smaller.

"I'd say this place was boring, Sherlock, but I can actually see why you like it."

Tears he didn't know he was shedding froze against his face as he felt the caress and listened to the familiar drawl.

"There's no screaming here."

* * *

The flat is silent when John enters early next morning, keys jingling in his hand and feet pounding up the stairs to 221b. Opening the door at the top of the landing, he enters into the living room. Weak sunlight shines through all the windows, and in each sunbeam thousands of dust molecules swirl and tumble over each other. There is no sign of Sherlock in the living room or at his usual spot in the kitchen, and this should have been John's first warning sign, but his mind is preoccupied. After arriving at Harry's last night, he'd done quite a bit of thinking. His sister had been too intoxicated to talk much, but she had given him a blanket and pillow so he could kip on the couch. Lying awake, facing the ceiling, and dimly accepting how much his back was going to hurt the next day, he'd had to admit to himself that he'd never be able to get rid of Sherlock. They both needed each other, relied too much on each other. John for the lifestyle and Sherlock for the audience and quietly muttered 'not good's, both of them for the company.

Whether to be bitter or not about this fact is up to John.

Squaring his shoulders, John heads towards the bedroom, getting ready to have a good long chat about this Moriarty business, make a plan, discuss strategy, phone Mycroft, army stuff. That is, if Sherlock hadn't done all that already. After that he was going to get Sherlock to apologize for being a dick and then they'd have a good long snog.

Peeking his head through the open door, John saw that the bed was unmade and that Sherlock was not in it. He checked the bathroom. His own bedroom was as neat and empty as ever. He even checked with Mrs. Hudson in case Sherlock had gone for a cup of tea with her. Wandering back up to 221b, John noticed that Sherlocks coat was not on the hanger. Pulling out his mobile, he shoots off a text.

_Where are you? I want to talk._

_JW_

A few seconds later, he hears the chime of Sherlock's text alert coming from his bedroom. Wandering back inside, John checks the top of the dresser, the bedside table, and then searches the rumpled sheets of Sherlock's bed until he finally procures the phone. He sits on the edge, the mattress creaking under his weight, with the mobile in his palm. His hand is shaking a little bit. _Why would Sherlock leave without his mobile? Sherlock never goes anywhere without his mobile._

After a lot of sitting and a lot of thinking without accomplishing much of anything, John flips Sherlock's mobile open and looks at his received texts.

Staring at the screen, his hand stops shaking and his face goes slack. His breathing remains perfectly even, and after several minutes he sets the mobile aside, clasping his hands in his lap and staring down at them instead, eyes glazed over. The sunbeams travel across the floor as the seconds turn to minutes turn to hours.

Eventually, he does the only thing he can do; he gets up to put the kettle on, taking slightly longer than usual, hindered by the slight twinge in his leg.

* * *

Did I say all? No! One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he used to say,-

"It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

"I can't forget that I'm bereft

"Of all the pleasant sights they see,

"Which the Piper also promised me."

-The Pied Piper


End file.
